Cigarette Kisses
by Missie DuCaine
Summary: SLASH. "I was WORRIED about you, Andrew!" No one called Carter Andrew, except for his mom. And Newkirk.


Cigarette Kisses

_Hogan's Heroes, as well as all the characters within, are copyright to… CBS, technically. (This program is brought to you in colour by… CBS!) _

_I know, writing about old tv shows that my parents used to watch when they were younger than me is a little creepy. But it's a good show, darn it! (" I know nussing, I see nussing, I did not even get _out_ of bed vis morning!")_

There hadn't _been_ a system, not really. No one had a favourite – or if they did, they weren't telling the rest of the camp – and everyone just kind of rotated around the group, depending on the day, or who was in the cooler, or whatever other possible reason. Perhaps it was the weather, or the mood of the fuehrer that day. No one really knew.

Whatever rotating door policy Stalag 13 might have had, girls were pretty few and far between. It had gotten to the point where none of them were picky in the slightest, when it came to getting certain needs fulfilled, and it had, of course, gone even further. If you're in a camp with some fifty other men, and no girls, and another two hundred men rotating through the camp every year, one's options were pretty limited. Not that the men in camp were ugly, or anything, well, not all of them were gorgeous… but they were all right, all things considered. They worked things out. 

It was true that they'd all run for a woman the moment she appeared, but still. There was the point that they were prisoners in name, if not in spirit, and they needed something. It was lonely in a POW camp.

Of course, everyone knew that LeBeau tended to stick closest to Newkirk, but they were best friends, too. It was understandable. And so Colonel Hogan got to pick out the very best of everything, whenever he wanted, but he was the commanding officer. He didn't end up with any of his men most of the time anyway – he never told his men about it, but they all knew, plain as the war was being won by the allies, that Hogan had many ways of controlling – and being controlled – by Commandant Klink.

Everyone knew that. 

All the same, there was a bit of an upset in the middle of it all, all with one sentence.

"I was _worried_ about you, Andrew!"

At the time, no one really thought about it. Andrew Carter didn't even think about it, since he had far more important things on his mind at the time, like the fact that he'd just been nearly killed. And that they were about to be killed. Wars weren't exactly nice for anyone.

But a couple days later, as the entire barracks were sleeping, the only sounds the distant barking of dogs and movements of the German soldiers, Carter frowned at the bottom of Newkirk's bunk, unable to sleep. The mattresses weren't very nice, he could see the one above squishing between the slats that formed the rough bunk. It didn't look very comfortable. Well, it wouldn't be, if it was anything like his own. His was not very comfy. There was a slat of wood pressing into his shoulderblade, and it kind of itched. He didn't like it. But he wasn't worried about it. 

Worried about it. His thoughts were wandering quite about, but worry… hadn't someone said… 

"I was _worried_ about you, Andrew!"

Huh.

No one called him Andrew, except his mother. Even his dad called him Boy-o. But Newkirk, the other day, he'd called him 'Andrew'. When he said he was _worried_ about him. Go figure. 

Actually, he wasn't even sure he could _remember_ Newkirk's first name. He knew he was English, and he knew he had an accent that was a lot of fun to listen to, and he knew he did great impressions. And his magic tricks were incredible. And he was very talented with his hands. And he came up with brilliant plans a lot – or so Hogan kept saying. Carter could appreciate that. He _liked_ Newkirk. He hadn't expected the reaction he'd gotten the other day, though. Using his first name, and saying he was worried about him. Huh. Go figure. 

Jutting out his lower jaw thoughtfully, he frowned. Now he wanted to know why he'd said that. He was curious – you could hardly blame the guy. It wasn't exactly typical behaviour. 

Now he was curious, and he wanted to know why he'd said that. But he couldn't just _ask_ him. Could he?

Sure, why not? 

Stretching, he poked at the largest lump in the mattress above him with his toe. It shifted a little, but didn't seem to be indicative of Newkirk getting up. 

He poked harder. Newkirk shifted a little more, but still didn't seem to be waking up. That was no good. Sitting up, he punched at the lump this time, hissing, "Newkirk!"

Finally, the lump shifted entirely to the left, and a sleepy, exhausted looking Englishman leaned over the edge of the bunk. "Carter, what are you ruddy doing, poking me in my bloody sleep?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Carter said. "Sorry."

"It couldn't wait til _morning_?" Newkirk sighed, slouching forward.

"I wanted to know what you meant," he hissed, trying to keep it down for the rest of the men still trying to sleep. "And it's _important_. But sorry."

"What about?" Newkirk sighed.

"You said you were worried about me, the other day." Carter whispered. "And you called me _Andrew_."

The other paled a little. "Carter… let's not talk about this now."

"No, I want to know about this now. I want to know what you meant." He stuck out his jaw stubbornly, knowing his face was a little narrow, and his jaw wasn't strong at all, but he could try. 

The Englishman sighed, closing his eyes. "There's gotta be somewhere else to talk about this. We can't go in the tunnels, Kinch's sleeping. 'ere. Come on up 'ere. We can talk easier. If you want to insist on talking, that is."

Carter nodded furiously.

The other sighed, and sat up. "Get up 'ere, then."

Clambering out of his own bed, Carter climbed up beside him, hugging his knees as he grinned at Newkirk. "Kay. What did you mean, Newkirk?"

Leaning back, Newkirk dug in the side of his mattress for his cigarettes, lighting one up, then offering the pack to Carter. He brightened, and eagerly took one. "I 'onestly was just worried about you, Carter. I didn't mean anything bad by it, if that's what you're thinkin'."

"Oh, I didn't think that. I just wondered why you were worried about me. And why you called me Andrew. I don't think anybody calls me Andrew."

"Am I not allowed to be worried?" the other muttered.

"Well, sure. I can't see any reason why you shouldn't be worried. That's allowed. But it was kinda… I dunno. No one calls me Andrew, see. I didn't expect it, I suppose." He shrugged, tugging on Newkirk's blanket a bit. "I suppose it just worried me a little, is all, you being worried. I was just wondering…"

"You wanna know why I was worried? Cause I thought you were dead!"

Carter blinked. "But you didn't tell LeBeau that you were…"

"I wasn't worried about LeBeau, I was worried about _you_!" Newkirk hissed. 

"Well, I… why?"

"This is why!" Newkirk hissed, darting forward to slam his hands against Carter's chest, pushing his back onto the uncomfortable bed, and pressing his lips against his, kissing him fiercely. 

Carter let out a muffled gasp, staring up at him wildly, confused. You see, for most all of the men in the camp, there was a line they'd all drawn. Kissing was an invisible line that you just couldn't cross. Everything up to that point, that was all explainable – they were POWs. They couldn't get out. It was acceptable. But if they were to kiss another man, that was just too far – that was the line they'd never be able to cross. And though Carter had never _exactly_ set about with that rule in mind, he'd sort of had it there like all the others had, and as far as he knew, Newkirk had _really_ sternly stuck to that rule. Which really didn't make a lot of sense in light of the fact that Newkirk was currently pressed over him, pressing their lips together. 

The Englishman pulled back a little, biting his lip as he looked, concerned, at Carter.

Carter blinked. "Oh. You've never done that before."

"Lord knows I _wanted_ to," Newkirk smiled hesitantly, just a little. "You… you're upset, aren't you?"  
"Oh, no, I just…" Carter frowned, taking a deep breath. "I thought you didn't kiss…"

"I don't." Newkirk said decisively, and kissed his again.

"I thought you just said…"

"I know what I said." The other said sternly, jaw set. "And I don't kiss people. I'm kissing _you_. There's a difference."

"There is?"

"Yes." He kissed him again. "There is."

"Oh." Carter blinked up at him, confused. "I see. I didn't expect that."

"I am sick of cigarette kisses," Newkirk said stubbornly, resting his hand on the other's jaw, letting his thumb trail over the other's cheekbone. 

"Cigarette kisses?"

"Sharing a cigarette. I kiss it, then you kiss it. It's like a real kiss, only not really. It's the closest I've been able to manage." His fingers trailed down a little further until their tips were trailing over the other's lips. "I like this loads better."

"Oh, so do I. Not that I don't like sharing cigarettes, no, I just like this…"

Newkirk smirked, and leaned down to pressed his lips against his again. "Stop talking, Carter."

He grinned. "Well, when you put it _that_ way…"

"I do like it that way." Newkirk beamed, tapping the other's nose gently. "You know, I'm starting to get tired of seeing you messing about with the others. I don't like it one bit."

"So, what? You want me not to hang out with the others?" Carter blinked at him. 

"No, hang out to your 'eart's content. But don't you be doin' nothin' with them, understand? I gets to kiss you, I gets to say who you mess 'round with. And I say you don't get to mess round with anybody but me."

"Well, I don't see why not," Carter blinked, smiling. "That makes some sense to me. I think. Well, I like kissing, anyhow. So I guess I can handle the rest of it. I like you well enough, anyhow."

"Oh, well that's just blooming lovely to hear," he rolled his eyes. "You like me well enough. That's just peachy, isn't it?"

"Oh, I didn't mean it like _that_, well, actually, I mean, I did, but I didn't mean like _that_ that… I'm not making any sense, am I, really?" Carter grinned, flushing a little. "I'm not really very good at this… even my old girl left me for someone who wasn't in a prisoner of war camp cause I wasn't very good at being her boy anyway. I'm not good at being anybody's boy, actually. Not at all. I tend to talk to much, everyone says, and…"

Newkirk shut him up again with a firm, covering kiss. Carter sighed a little, and relaxed into it, eyes sliding shut.

"_Finally_," LeBeau muttered softly, hunching his shoulders. "_Someone_ finally shut him up."


End file.
